


Civil Hands (Unclean)

by p1013



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Forced Proximity, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Magic Made Them Do It, Mildly Dubious Consent, More like shower foreplay, POV Multiple, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Quidditch Player Draco Malfoy, Quidditch Player Harry Potter, Rimming, Shower Sex, Wet Clothing Kink, if you squint right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:35:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23245612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/p1013/pseuds/p1013
Summary: While he and Malfoy reached something like a truce in the years between the end of the War and now, their Quidditch rivalry has only grown. And with it, a simmering tension that is absolutely not sexual, no matter how many times Hermione raises her eyebrow when Harry's drinking at her and Ron's house. Not even when his head is resting on the kitchen table next to his empty glass, and he's moaning about Draco bloody Malfoy, and his bloody perfect seat on a broom, and his bloody perfect technique.But as Harry stares over his teammates heads towards the Puddlemere United bench, he catches a flash of wet white-blond hair and flashing grey eyes, and he thinks that Hermione's eyebrow might have a point.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 68
Kudos: 638
Collections: Lock Down Fest





	Civil Hands (Unclean)

"And Puddlemere United scores another, folks! That puts them up eighty points to sixty against the Cannons, though it's still anyone's game at this point. The match has been going on for two hours so far, and with this weather, we're expecting it to be drawn out. Now, Weasley has the Quaffle and is heading toward the goals, but, oh! That's a beautiful shot from Puddlemere's Beater, looks like Smith, and Puddlemere has come up with the Quaffle. Their Chaser core has looked real good this season, very in-tune, very practiced, and they're showing off those skills here tonight. Fredrick passes to Bartlett, Bartlett passes to Turpin, and now Turpin is approaching the goal, getting ready to shoot. The Cannon's Keeper is ready to block, and there's the throw—

But what's this! Looks like Potter and Malfoy are neck-and-neck, and yes, there it is, there's the Snitch! This could be it, wizards and witches! Malfoy's gaining speed, he's inching forward, it looks like he's got the—but no! Potter has jumped from his broom, he's falling, and yes! He has it! Potter's got the Snitch! The Chudley Cannons have won it!"

* * *

Harry's team lifts him from the ground, their voices blending together into an indistinct roar that drowns out the ringing in his ears. The pitch, soaked as it is with rain, is still bloody hard, and he hit it with a good amount of force. He was lucky he didn't lose the Snitch when he dove— _reckless, irresponsible, bloody brilliant_ , he can already hear his coach screaming at him—from his broom. 

But damned if Harry was going to let Draco bloody Malfoy come up with the win. So, even though it had been monumentally stupid of him, he dove from his brand new, custom-made Nimbus, hoping that any broken bones would be minor and that he wouldn't miss the damned Snitch through the heavy downpour. His fingers closed around it, and, as he twisted his body, hoping that he'd land on something soft, he caught Malfoy's enraged expression, so close that Harry could count the wrinkles of outrage lining Malfoy's forehead and bracketing his mouth. Those grey eyes had flashed at him, and Harry didn't even try to stop the shit-eating grin that erupted across his face as his right shoulder plowed into the muddy ground beneath.

Now, sitting on Ginny and Gerald's shoulders, he feels a massive bruise forming, but it was so worth it for that second of heat that flashed across Malfoy's face.

Harry does his best not to think about that too much, at least not while he's around other people who might notice the flush rising in his cheeks or his cock stiffening in his trousers. While he and Malfoy reached something like a truce in the years between the end of the War and now, their Quidditch rivalry has only grown. And with it, a simmering tension that is absolutely _not_ sexual, no matter how many times Hermione raises her eyebrow when Harry's drinking at her and Ron's house. Not even when his head is resting on the kitchen table next to his empty glass, and he's moaning about Draco bloody Malfoy, and his bloody perfect seat on a broom, and his bloody perfect technique.

But as Harry stares over his teammates heads towards the Puddlemere United bench, he catches a flash of wet white-blond hair and flashing grey eyes, and he thinks that Hermione's eyebrow might have a point.

* * *

Draco storms into his team's locker room, struggling out of his soaking wet Quidditch robes. Of _course_ , Potter had keyed onto Draco's dive. Of _course_ , he'd managed to do something reckless and stupid to win the match. Of _course_ , he'd looked gorgeous doing it.

What an arsehole.

His teammates file past him, slapping him on the shoulder and murmuring commiseration, but he doesn't absorb it. All he can see is Potter's fingers closing around the Snitch like they belong there, his wide mouth grinning up at Draco, white teeth a flash of light in Potter's dark face, the lean line of his body as he crashes into the mud with a victorious laugh.

His gloves land in the bottom of his locker with a squelch. The leather is soaked through, the woolen padding within, heavy with rain. His undershirt, woven with warming spells, joins them, followed by his shin guards. Draco's boots pull his socks off with them, but since they're both drenched, he doesn't mind. The leather trousers beneath aren't much better and cling to his legs as he peels them from his skin. Standing in just a pair of tight black athletic pants, he stares at the pile of likely ruined gear and fumes that he was so close to making the waste worth it.

"Hey, Malfoy."

He turns and catches the box thrown at him by Turpin, Puddlemere's captain.

"Glad to see your reflexes aren't lacking," he says with a cocky grin that Draco wants to smack off his face. "That came in for you earlier. Looks like fanmail."

"Fantastic," Draco says as he looks back at the box in his hands. It's wrapped in plain, brown paper. His name is written on it in an indistinct script, and there's no sending address or name anywhere on the packaging. When he flips it over, something rattles inside, and Draco frowns, wondering what in the hell he's going to find when he opens it up. "Thanks, Turp."

"Good game today," his captain adds, voice rueful. "Sucks that Potter doesn't care about doing grievous bodily harm to himself."

"It's a life-long affliction, I'm afraid." Draco rolls his eyes. "He's been like that since we were at school."

"Guess it comes naturally when you spend half your life trying to defeat He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, but it's bloody inconsiderate in sport."

"Absolutely." Draco gestures with the box. "Thanks for bringing this in for me."

"Of course. See you at practice tomorrow." Turpin nods, then heads out of the locker room.

Draco sets the box down in his locker, then looks around, surprised to find it already empty of his teammates. They must've changed while he was fuming about Potter literally snatching victory from Draco's hands and left him to it. He's got a reputation for cold anger in the face of a loss, especially a near one, and most of the team has learned to let him stew in silence, rather than try to ease him out of it. As Draco considers his options—getting back to his well-deserved sulk or taking a shower—someone coughs behind him.

"Turpin, I'm fine. You don't have to keep checking on me."

"Oh, well, then," a voice that is distinctly not Turpin's says from the locker room doorway. "Guess I'll shake your hand another time."

Draco whirls around, shocked into silence by the easy way Potter leans in the doorframe. He's still wearing his uniform. The fabric is wet, and that particular shade of Cannon's orange shouldn't be appealing on anyone, man or woman. But something about the way the robe clings to Potter's muscular form, so unlike Draco's own whip-cord leanness, and the damp curls of black hair tangling above Potter's forehead, setting off his startling green eyes… Draco nearly sighs, then realizes he's standing in the middle of the locker room in only his pants, and this is _not_ the time to get a semi.

"Potter."

"Malfoy." Potter pushes his shoulder into the doorframe, standing in a graceful motion that makes Draco want to shiver. "Good game today. You nearly had me."

"Until someone decided nearly braining themselves would be an appropriate play call."

Potter shrugs, then winces. "Seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Of course it did." Gryffindors. "How's your shoulder?"

"Not too bad." Potter rolls it again, though it doesn't seem to pain him quite as much as before. "I'll need to see a healer later."

"Don't let me hold you up."

Potter reaches his hand out, still wrapped in wet leather gloves. "I was serious about the handshake. I wouldn't have gotten the Snitch if you hadn't drawn my attention to it." His mouth quirks up in a remembrance of the grin he'd shot Draco before falling to the ground. "It was rather rotten of me to snag it like that."

"Very unsporting of you." Draco takes Potter's hand, tries to not think about the strength of that grip or that he's still only wearing pants, his hair wet and plastered to his forehead. Meanwhile, Potter is standing there, fully dressed and looking sinfully disheveled, even covered in a thick layer of mud.

Potter grins, but his expression dims as he looks over Draco's shoulder. "What's that?"

"That?" Draco sighs and picks up the box from the top half of his locker. "Some fan sent it, I believe. Not entirely sure what's inside, but I'm not going to bother with it until after I Apparate home."

"Why not open it here?" Potter's fingers twitch. "I can never wait to open things from fans."

"That's because you have no self control." Draco holds the box out to Potter, eyebrow raised. "Open it, if you want."

"Really?" His green eyes sparkle with unrepressed glee. "Thanks."

Potter digs into the paper, revealing a simple cardboard box underneath. The flaps are tucked in, one on top of the other, and as he pulls them back, Draco hears something snap.

Suddenly, the air around them is filled with a viciously pink powder that glints and sparkles in the artificial lights of the locker room. Draco breathes in a mouthful of the stuff, then starts coughing. It tastes like overly sweet strawberry candy, and as he moves his tongue in his mouth, trying to push the material out, it turns into a paste, thick and gritty like sand.

"Oy, what the hell, Malfoy?" Potter says, spitting. "What game are you playing at?"

But his head is spinning, and there's a ringing in his ears. Draco looks up at Potter, takes in his furiously betrayed expression and the solid set of his shoulders, the line of his neck—covered in the pink stuff, but no less masculine for the colorful sparkle against his skin—and the tightness in his jaw.

Immediately, Draco feels his dick harden in his pants.

"Jesus, Malfoy." Harry throws the box to the floor. "Seriously, what are you trying to do? Glitter me to death?"

Draco groans. He doesn't mean to, it just comes out. He feels overly hot, even though he's naked and was, as of a few moments ago, still chilled through from the rain. But now, he's steaming, flames licking beneath his skin, and desperate for…

"Potter."

Harry frowns, clearly not sure how to handle the groaning or the way Draco just said his name. As if it were a curse or a blessing, but, either way, something desperate.

"Are you…" His eyes drop to Draco's mouth before he licks his lips. "Oh… Oh no."

"I think"—Draco's bowled over by another wave of unmitigated want— "that might be a lust potion."

"Who's sending you lust potions?" Potter's voice is low and rough, and without thinking, Draco's body sways towards him, Draco's hands already reaching for the collar of Potter's disgusting uniform. Potter bats them away, though his own fingers linger against Draco's skin. "Hey now, hands off."

"We need to wash it off." Draco can't move, can't breathe. His dick is so hard, it hurts, and all he wants is Potter's cool hands on his overheated flesh. "Now."

"Yeah." Potter takes a stumbling step forward, his hands falling to Draco's elbows. They both groan at the contact. "Showers."

Draco scans his eyes over Potter's body, mind whirling at the promise of muscle beneath cloth. "You're still dressed."

"And I'm staying that way." He pushes Draco back a step. "Nothing good is going to happen if I strip."

"Smart." Draco shuts his eyes, lets Potter push him towards the showers, trusting and body humming. "Very smart."

Potter groans. "I think it got you worse. You'd never call me smart, not unless you were out of your head."

"Fuck you, Potter." He groans, his lower stomach filling with a twisted need. "Merlin, bad choice of words." Potter laughs, and then Draco's feet touch ice-cold tile. He groans again. "That feels amazing."

"I bet." Water turns on behind him, and Draco's mind flashes with a variety of highly unprofessional mental images. Potter, standing beneath the heavy fall of the shower, naked body glistening with the wet and soap, his hands trailing over the hard planes of his body, taking his cock in his hand and stroking, from root to tip, slow and easy, eyes hooded and mouth grinning. 

Looking at Draco as he comes all over himself.

"Should not have shut my eyes," Draco murmurs before Potter shoves him under the spray.

As soon as the water hits him, he feels some of his lust dim. Eyes opening slowly, he stares at Potter, then peers at the tiled floor where the pink powder is slowly circling the drain between his feet.

"Better?"

Draco lets out a shuddering breath. "Yes, thank Salazar."

"Fantastic. Make room."

"What?"

Before he can do anything, Potter is pushing his way into the shower stall, uniform and all, and stepping under the water. His body is pressed against the length of Draco's, and any relief Draco had gained from rinsing off the powder is lost in the wave of heat that races through him, with Potter's fully clothed form so close to his nearly naked one.

He moans—he can't help it, dammit—and then his hands fall to Potter's hips. Draco isn't sure if they want to push Potter away or pull him closer.

* * *

Whatever that powder was, it's made Harry painfully aware of Malfoy's body, the lean line of his muscles, the careful rise and fall of his chest as he pants. The water pours over the reddened skin of Malfoy's mouth, and Harry wants to know what it tastes like, how it would feel to open those lips up with his own and swallow down the groans hidden in Malfoy's throat, or what it would look like spread open around the thick length of Harry's cock.

Draco's hands on Harry's hips are like brands, even through all the layers of his uniform. His glasses are useless in the wet spray of the shower, but Harry keeps them on, needing the veil of water and glass to dull the outline of Malfoy's body only a hand's breadth away.

"What're you doing, Malfoy?" Harry's words brush against the tender skin beneath Draco's ear. Water droplets shift, running down his neck, and Harry wants to put his tongue to them.

"I don't know."

That fucking powder. Harry's well aware of his own attraction to Draco—it's been a problem for years, but he's been ~~suppressing~~ dealing with it, thank you _very much_ —but as far as he knows, it's all one-sided. Though there's a pink haze overlaying his own existing desire for the posh git, it only makes it easier for Harry to recognize which part is being driven by his own feelings and which part is the powder.

The shower is both helping and not. He didn't get hit with much of whatever the stuff is. His neck and face are covered in a thin layer but his uniform kept the rest off of his skin. As he ducks his head into the spray, coincidentally stepping closer to Draco's lithe body, he feels the powder's effects dim.

Draco's hands clench on his hips. "What are you…" Draco swallows, and Harry watches the man's neck shift with the motion. "What do you think you're doing?"

Harry isn't thinking, and that's the problem. The powder is an excuse at this point, a reasonable explanation for why Harry wants his hands all over Malfoy's naked, wet skin. But his mind is nearly clear, only fogged with the usual lust he feels when he sees Malfoy, and he doesn't know if Malfoy wants this, too, or if it's coerced. But when Harry tries to take a step back, Malfoy's hands on his hips tighten and hold him in place.

Harry places his hands over Malfoy's, feels the tension carried in the tendons at his wrists and the heavy muscles in Malfoy's forearms. Harry opens his mouth, water splashing between his parted lips, and tries to think of something, anything, to say. Malfoy's grey eyes are nearly black, his pupils blown with desire, and they trail the motion when Harry's tongue darts out to lick the water away.

Slowly, carefully, Harry lets his still-gloved hands move from Malfoy's wrists, over his forearms, stopping in the dip of his inner elbows. Malfoy's eyes drift closed as his mouth falls open, and Harry presses his thumbs into the delicate curve of Malfoy's arms.

"Is this okay?" Harry's voice is dark and rough. "Should I stop?"

"Better get it all off." Malfoy's eyes are still closed, though his head is tilted back into the spray. "Scrub it away."

"It did get everywhere," Harry says, breathing heavily. "And we don't know if the effect gets worse the longer it's on your skin."

"Nothing for it, then." Malfoy shifts in Harry's grip, but he's moving closer, not pulling away. "Make sure you get it all."

Harry drags his hands over the bulge of Malfoy's upper arms, trails them across the heavy weight of his shoulders, leaving streaks of pale skin as he wipes away the pink. His gloves, bulky and unwieldy with wet, force Malfoy to tilt his head back, baring his throat in a long, pale line.

Harry leans in, drags his nose up that alabaster column. Though Malfoy had been coated in the powder and drenched by clean, fresh water, Harry thinks he can still smell sweat on the man's skin, salty and rich. Before he can stop himself, he darts out his tongue to steal a taste. He feels Malfoy groan beneath his palms. 

"Just making sure there isn't any under your chin," Harry lies.

Malfoy doesn't respond, just tilts his head farther back, water cascading over the planes of his face. Harry takes it as permission and presses his lips to Malfoy's pulse, consumed with heat and want. His mouth is full of water and strawberry, and he desperately searches for those hidden hints of Malfoy's unique flavor. Harry drags his teeth over Malfoy's skin, buries his leather-wrapped fingers in Malfoy's hair, pushing and pulling him where Harry wants him.

"Potter," Malfoy moans. The hands on Harry's hips shift, moving away the heavy weight of his soaking wet robes and shirt underneath. They burn on Harry's skin, hot and calloused, and he presses into the caress. "Your mouth…"

"Sorry. I can stop," Harry says, though he isn't sure he can. "If you don't…"

"Don't you dare." Malfoy sighs, flushed cheeks growing redder. "I meant you're getting more of it in your mouth."

Harry laughs and pulls back. Malfoy's groan is disappointed this time, and he blinks away water as he stares into Harry's eyes, his gaze soft and heated.

"Turn around." Harry drags his hands from Malfoy's hair to his chest, pushing him gently. "I need to get your back."

"Fuck. Okay." Malfoy swallows, stares at Harry's mouth like he wants it back on his skin, and Harry isn't in the mood to deny the silent request. If Malfoy fights it, Harry will chalk it up to the powder and hope the embarrassment won't haunt him for the rest of his life. He leans forward, lets his lips brush against Malfoy's, whose breath stutters out against Harry's mouth.

"Turn around." He whispers, letting the words settle on Draco's tongue, full of intent.

"Yes." Malfoy shifts, presents his back to Harry. His palms rest on the tiled wall of the shower, making his back muscles flex and pull as his head drops down, water streaming over the back of his neck and down between his shoulders.

There's no trace of the powder on Malfoy's back, just acres of smooth muscles and skin, the nearly hidden ridge of his spine, the dimples above his ass that's still covered in wet, black fabric. Harry doesn't know what he wants to touch first, and he's frozen with indecision at the offering that is Malfoy's body before him, hard and tense and expectant.

* * *

"You see anything?" Draco's voice is wrecked, his question forced out through gritted teeth. All he can see is the white tile before him, the knob controlling the water temperature, the hard jut of his cock against the soaked fabric of his pants. He can feel Potter's presence behind him, just a sensation of eyes and waiting that makes his pulse race. He wants those rough, leather-clad hands on his skin, wants to feel the press of Potter's still-clothed body against his nakedness, wants relief from the insistent pulse of his heartbeat in his dick.

"Yeah." Hot leather at his hips. "Just a bit."

Potter places his mouth on the top of Draco's spine, and he feels the heat of Potter's breath like a brand, burning through him with painful intensity. Draco bites back a moan, but can't stop his hips from thrusting forward, desperate for something to press against. Potter's hands tighten on Draco's hips and hold him still, Potter's thumbs digging into the tender skin just above the elastic of Draco's pants. Mouth open, panting, his vision goes white around the edges.

"Potter," he gasps, trying to shift so that he can press back against something, _anything_ , but those hands hold Draco's body frozen. "Harry, please—"

"Malfoy?"

His name, shouted from somewhere in the locker room, turns him cold.

"Malfoy, where'd you get to? Turpin's taking us to the pub, wanted to know if you were done sulking!"

"Is that Bartlett?" Potter asks the base of Draco's neck.

"Yes." He doesn't want to pull away, but he does. The remembered pressure of Potter's fingertips against his skin have Draco aching. He clears his throat, then shouts, "I'm in the shower. Be out in a minute."

"Okay, mate. You're going to have to explain what this mess is, though."

Shit.

Suddenly frantic, Draco turns off the water, then glances around for a towel. Finding one draped over a bench right outside of the shower stall, he grabs at it, wrapping it around his hips and hoping his pants won't show through the thin terry cloth, before rushing into the main part of the locker room.

Bartlett is crouched on the floor, fingers trailing through the pink powder covering the floor. "What the hell did you spill over here?"

He looks up at Draco, smiling in a slightly teasing way. But as Bartlett takes him in, his mouth falls open, eyes going distant and lust-hazed.

_Shit._

"Bartlett, you need to get out of here."

Bartlett stands, hands dusted with pink and reaching for Draco. "I think I know what I need."

A second later, there's a gloved hand wrapped around Draco's arm, pulling him back from Bartlett's desperate reach. "Sorry, mate, but you don't need this."

Potter hurries Draco away, Bartlett stumbling after them, and effectively tosses Draco into a large equipment room at the back of the locker room. There's a lock, the bolt on their side of the door, and Potter twists it with force, closing them both inside the room. Outside, Bartlett's voice is muffled, but Draco can hear the man moaning his name, his fists pounding on the door.

Silently, Draco and Potter stand side-by-side, staring at the door and listening to the soft thump of Bartlett on the other side. It takes on a rhythmic quality, and Potter's face goes beet red.

After a second, Draco raises his eyebrows. "Is he…"

"Humping the door." Potter coughs, poorly concealing a laugh. "I think so."

Draco does his best to hold in his own laughter, but between the quickly increasing pace of the thumps against the door, the way his pants are starting to chafe, and his erection—somehow still at full salute, even after everything—Draco can't. He folds in half, hands on his knees as he starts to shake, laughing so hard, he doesn't make a sound.

"Are you okay?" Potter asks, reaching for Draco, who waves him away.

"Fine," he gasps. "Just need a minute."

Potter exhales shakily. "Look, Malfoy… I'm sorry, I shouldn't have… I didn't mean to upset you so much. I'll go out there and deal with Bartlett, and then I'll call the commissioner or… I don't know, the Aurors and turn myself in."

"What are you talking about?" Draco looks up, grin fading, his hair falling into his eyes for a moment before he stands. "What've the Aurors got to do with anything?"

"I… accosted you." Harry gestures towards Draco's body, eyes lingering on the bulge in his pants with something like regret and desire. "Someone dosed you with something, and I took advantage."

"You were dosed, too." Draco fights the urge to hold his hands in front of his crotch.

Potter has the decency to look guilty. "But not as badly as you were. I…"

"Potter." Draco takes a hesitant step forward, not wanting to spook the man. "Do I look like I'm not in control of my faculties right now?"

"Well, no, but the shower…"

"Did I, at any point in time, indicate that I'd like you to stop what you were doing?"

Understanding starts to seep into Potter's eyes. "No. You didn't."

"So, again. What do the Aurors have to do with anything?"

"I guess… Nothing?"

Draco raises an eyebrow. "Anything else you'd like to discuss while we're in here? It doesn't sound like he"—he tilts his head to the door—"is going to be done anytime soon."

"I'm almost impressed with his stamina."

Draco laughs. "He'll run out of steam eventually, I'm sure."

Potter pauses, swallows. "So… Was it just the powder, then?"

Draco isn't sure how to respond. The powder certainly played a role in things, but if he's absolutely honest with himself—and he thinks he has to be, if he's going to get through whatever the near future holds for him—the flashes of heat he feels whenever he looks at Potter aren't something new.

He knows he's waited too long to respond, Potter's shoulders somehow going tight and drooping at the same time. They stand in the equipment room, listening to Bartlett making enthusiastic love to the door, and Draco shivers. Without the heat of the shower—or Potter's body—he's starting to grow cold, especially with only his pants on, and those soaked through. He glances at Potter, whose lips have turned slightly blue, and is visibly shaking.

"Potter," Draco says, startled. "Take off your bloody clothes."

He looks at Draco, eyes wide. "What?"

"You're clearly freezing, you idiot. You need to get out of your wet kit."

"I…" He swallows. "Okay. If you're sure it won't make you uncomfortable."

"Hardly." Trying to beat back the wicked glee growing in his chest, Draco does his best to watch the show without getting caught.

Potter's gloves hit the ground with a wet slap, and he shakes his hands out with a sigh. Now freed, his fingers tackle the fastening at his throat, sliding the toggle through its loop so his Quidditch robe gapes open at the neck. He shrugs his shoulders, shifting the weight back, and drags his arms from the sleeves. The orange and mud-stained thing falls to the floor, baring Potter's broad shoulders and chest and the narrow taper of his waist.

His white long-sleeved undershirt is soaked through and translucent because of it. Draco's breath catches in his throat, and he gives up any pretense of not staring. Not when he can see the swell of muscle, curled chest hair, and Potter's dark nipples, peaked from the cold.

There's no way that Potter can't tell what's happening, what he's doing to Draco by simply removing his wet clothes, but Potter doesn't stop undressing. Instead, his hands slow, taking their time as they peel the fabric from his well-muscled body. As the hem creeps its way over the rippled spread of his abs, fingers falling in and out of the divots there, his mouth drops open, tongue sweeping out across his full, lower lip. When Draco moans, Potter grins and makes sure to trail his hands over his nipples before pulling the shirt over his head, throwing it down next to his robes.

Left in only his leather flying trousers, shin pads, and knee-high boots, Potter should look stupid. He should look bare and uncomfortable and out of place. Instead, he glistens. His masculine beauty tears through Draco and leaves him hard and wanting. Potter's hands, so sure and sultry before, fall to his sides. His fingers are uncurled and relaxed, but in the way they are before wrapping around the Snitch or reaching for his broom. They're waiting for something to hold, to draw close.

"Malfoy." Potter takes a tentative step towards him, wary understanding in his eyes. "I don't think I can get out of these boots on my own. Maybe you could lend a hand?"

Draco swallows, throat suddenly dry at the prospect of kneeling before Potter to remove his footwear. "I'm sure you can handle it on your own."

"I think you owe me one." Potter tilts his head towards the door, Bartlett no longer thumping away on the other side. "I did save you, after all."

Already knowing that he's going to give in, he chokes the words out. "You did."

He takes a step forward, then another, until he's nearly chest-to-chest with Potter. Potter's glasses are still dotted with water, but Draco can see the way Potter's eyes blaze as he takes in Draco's parted lips and flushed cheeks.

Without a word, he sinks down. There's thin, utilitarian carpet on the floor of the equipment room, and it bites into the overly sensitive skin of his knees. He expects his hands to shake, but they're still and steady, movements sure, as they pull the laces of Potter's shin guards from where they're tucked in against his boots and untie them. He removes one guard, then the other, setting them to the side near the discarded robe and shirt. The fastenings on Potter's boots are a little more stubborn, so Draco pulls on Potter's right foot, making him lift it and set it on Draco's bare thigh. When Potter loses his balance slightly, shifting his weight to his raised foot and digging the heel into Draco's skin hard, Draco shivers at the pain.

He unties the laces, pulls them loose enough that Potter can slide his sock-clad foot from the boot. As Draco tackles the second one, Potter places his hand on Draco's shoulder, holding himself upright so he doesn't fall again. Draco finishes taking the second boot off, tosses it aside, then lets his hands trail over Potter's lower leg, fingers pressing into the hard muscle of his calf before sliding the sock free, then removing the other.

Draco looks up, kneeling on the floor before Potter with his cock tenting his pants and Potter's fingers digging into his shoulder. It's unexpected how much he likes the feel of it, especially when Potter trails his hand up the side of Draco's neck, threads it through Draco's short blond hair, and forces his head back.

"Thank you," Potter says quietly, and Draco shivers.

Potter's grip on Draco's hair tightens, and then he's moving Draco's head forward, forcing him closer and closer to Potter's fly. Draco isn't sure if time slows, or if the rapid beat of his heart has made everything else seem trapped in a thick fog, but as he inches closer and closer to where Potter is clearly tenting his trousers, he simultaneously hopes the moment will never end and that Potter will get on with it already.

The fingers in his hair clench, bringing tears to the corners of Draco's eyes. "Tell me to stop."

He gasps, "No."

"Good."

Potter pulls Draco's face closer, but Draco is already leaning in, pressing his nose against the bulge of Potter's cock. They both groan at the contact, and Draco has to grab his dick, suddenly worried that he's going to come from this brush of his skin against Potter's hardened, hidden flesh.

Potter's hand softens in Draco's hair, more of a caress than a command, and Draco lets his hands coast over the rough fabric of Potter's trousers. Draco presses an open-mouthed kiss to Potter's cloth-covered cock, and Potter thrusts lazily against Draco's lips. Hands shaking, he unlaces Potter's trousers and sneaks his fingertips into the gaping fabric.

At the first touch of skin against skin, Potter hisses in a breath, then curses. Draco feels feverish when he pulls Potter's cock from his trousers. He stares at it, taking in the dusky color, the way it curves into Draco's hand like it was made for it, the foreskin, pulled back from the darker head, already slick with precome.

It's heavy against the flat of Draco's tongue, the vein on the underside pulsing. Potter's hands clench in Draco's hair, pull him back though Draco strains to move forward.

"Open your mouth."

And Draco does, helpless against the wave of desire cresting over him.

Potter feeds his cock into Draco's mouth in slow, easy thrusts. He doesn't go all the way in at first, keeps the touch teasing and light, torturing the both of them. But when Draco leans forward, testing the restraint of Potter's hands in his hair, he's rewarded by a deep thrust that puts the head of Potter's cock in the back of his throat. Draco groans around it, then relaxes, lets Potter push farther and farther in until Draco's nose is buried in the vee of Potter's fly and the dark curls beneath.

Potter sets to fucking Draco's mouth raw after that, plunging in with brutally efficient thrusts that have drool running from the corners of Draco's aching mouth. His eyes water, but he loves it, and as Potter slowly loses control above him, Draco slides his hand into his pants, pulls his own aching cock free, and starts stroking.

"God." It's the first clear thing that Potter's said in long, sloppy minutes. "Do you have any idea what you do to me? How many times I've thought of this?"

Draco groans and thrusts into his grip.

"You drive me wild. Fuck, and your mouth." Potter's hands move from Draco's hair to cup his jaw, thumbs resting at the corners of his mouth. "I've thought about your mouth, just like this"—he thrusts forward, groaning—"so many times."

Draco stares up at Potter, mouth full and throat aching, his heart pounding in his chest.

"I want you so much, fuck." Potter thrusts again and again, hands gentle on Draco's face. Green eyes go half-lidded, then close, Potter's head falling back as his thrusts slow, turning lazy. He teases the both of them, and Draco follows his pace, the hand on his cock slowing until it's almost like not moving at all.

"I could come like this," Potter says, eyes still closed and head tilted back. "I could come down that pretty throat of yours, fill your mouth with it, taste it on your tongue after." His green stare blazes through Draco. "Would you like that? Would you like me to fill your throat with my come?"

Draco shudders and tightens his grip on his cock. It's too much. Potter's words wash over him, leave fire in their wake. Everything is burning, hot and overwhelming like Fiendfyre. Potter's hands clench on Draco's face, fingertips trailing down the smooth line of Draco's throat, and then he's gasping and thrusting wildly, hot, bitter liquid filling Draco's mouth. Potter doesn't stop thrusting, keeps pushing the head of his cock to the back of Draco's throat, and spit and come leak from the corner of Draco's mouth.

Potter pulls his cock free, and Draco, for a second, chases after it, his tongue darting out to lick at the head. Potter laughs, then drags Draco to his feet before—with no preamble, no question, no hesitation—kissing the life out of him.

Potter kisses the same way he plays Quidditch. It's natural, easy, but filled with passion and a desperate desire to win. His fingers cradle Draco's jaw as if it's gold, as if he wants to stop Draco from flying away, not that Draco would want to. His own fingers twist into the snarled, wet mess of Potter's hair, and he presses his body as close to Potter's as he can.

Lips and tongues tangle. Draco, still hard and aching, thrusts against Potter's hip, groaning into his open mouth at the feeling of rough cloth and the hard body beneath it. Potter bites at Draco's bottom lip before soothing the ache with his tongue.

"I want you to fuck me." Potter breathes the words into Draco's mouth, and he swallows them down the same way he swallowed Potter's come, desperate and wanting.

"Lube," Draco pants, fighting for some kind of grip on a world that's quickly spinning out of control around him. "I don't have my wand."

"I can do it wandlessly." Potter kisses him again, cutting off Draco's response.

It shouldn't make him this hard, knowing that Potter is not only powerful enough to cast a lubrication spell without his wand, but that he's done it enough times—that he's _practiced_ — that he's confident about it. Draco clutches at Potter's ass, uses the added leverage to grind against him in a wicked roll of hips. Potter's laugh tastes like strawberries and sweat, and he pushes away from Draco with a bright grin, before putting his hands on the waistband of his trousers and pushing them to the floor.

Draco can't breathe. Potter kicks his way free, oblivious to the devastation his long, lean legs and tight, curved ass have done to Draco's brain cells. Potter looks around the room, then grins when he finds whatever it is he's looking for, though Draco doesn't know or care what it is. All he can do is watch the careful pull and flex of muscles under skin, and the way that Potter's still-hard cock bobs as he walks towards a large wooden cabinet, before the insufferable man leans forward and grabs the edges of it in his broad fingers, ass out, head turned to look back at Draco, eyes flashing with challenge.

"What're you waiting for, Malfoy?"

* * *

Harry really hopes his bravado is covering the shimmering anxiety he's fighting back. It helps that Malfoy looks at him like Harry is the sun, and that Malfoy had precome beading at the head of his cock when Harry had glanced at him.

Warm breath coasts over his shoulder, followed by the gentle press of lips. "You're already bruising." Malfoy kisses the blade of Harry's shoulder again. "You brainless idiot."

"Don't think you should be insulting the man you're about to fuck."

"Pretty sure you like it." Malfoy wraps his hand around Harry's dick, choking a gasp from him. Probably because he came with an intensity he's never experienced before, his dick is overly sensitive. Malfoy's fingers on his skin send pleasure-pain lancing through him. With cruel efficiency, Malfoy strokes Harry slowly, twisting his grip as he reaches the head of Harry's cock, sending electricity dancing through Harry’s arms and legs and pooling in his gut.

"Spread your legs, Potter. Let me see you."

Harry's knees nearly buckle, but he shifts his feet wider, leaving himself open and exposed. He's turned on so much, it hurts. When Malfoy trails a cool finger over Harry's hole, he whimpers.

"So sensitive." Malfoy's voice is rough. "I'm going to ruin you, Harry. Are you ready?"

His first name shouldn't make him shake, shouldn't make heat radiate throughout his body. But, somehow, the way that Malfoy—fuck, _Draco_ , oh God, a name shouldn't feel so good—says it turns those two syllables into a whispered curse.

"Don't move, now." Draco kisses his shoulder again, then trails his mouth down Harry's back, lips pressing a final kiss at the base of his spine, right above the cleft of his ass cheeks. "I need to get you ready."

Harry's about to protest, but then Draco's pulling Harry's cheeks apart and his tongue is pressed to his arsehole, and Harry's words dry up in his mouth like water in a desert. Harry doesn't want to know where Draco learned to do this—jealousy is an odd thing to feel with a man's tongue in your ass—but he's devouring Harry now. His tongue, hot and insistent, laps at Harry's opening, wet and wicked. Fingers join in, and when the first one breaches Harry's hole, he gasps and presses back against it.

"Like that, hm?" Draco eases his finger out and thrusts it back in. "God, you're taking it so well."

Harry groans, presses his head against the cabinet's door. Draco eases a second finger in, then scissors Harry open farther. "Will you hurry up already?"

Draco slaps Harry's ass, the sharp sound echoing in the small room. "Patience is a virtue, Potter." He twists his fingers in Harry, forcing him open with a slight sting. "Do you want me to hurt you when I fuck you open?"

Oh, God, _yes._ "Fine," Harry bites out before waving his hand, casting the lubrication spell and feeling Draco's fingers slip in deeper. "But I need you, dammit."

Draco kisses the globe of Harry's ass cheek. "Obviously." Teeth catch on skin. "I'll take care of you. Trust me."

Harry lets his head hang down, mouth open on a gasp as Draco plunges forward, three fingers now stretching him open and searching for that spot inside that'll light him up. When Draco's fingertips brush against Harry's prostate, he moans, low and long, and Draco presses harder against it. Stars explode behind Harry's eyes, and if he hadn't already come, he would be doing so now. Instead, his knees lock and sweat breaks out across his shoulders and upper back.

"Draco," he gasps, feels a thrill echo through him at the name, "please."

With a final twist of his wrist, Draco's hand slips from Harry's body. Draco presses a kiss to the back of Harry's neck, then murmurs, "I'm going to need you to cast that spell one more time." He drags his hand around Harry's side, then lets it rest, open and waiting, in front of Harry.

Carelessly, Harry casts the lubrication spell again, filling Draco's hand with the clear, slippery liquid. His hand disappears, then Draco groans as he works it over his cock. Harry can't see it, his eyes trained on the carpeted floor, but he imagines it. Imagines those long, slender fingers wrapped around Draco's thick shaft, covering it in lube until it gleams.

"Breathe," Draco says when his hands on Harry's hips make Harry’s lungs clench. "It'll be easier if you're not tense."

"I'm not tense," Harry protests, but then there's the blunt press of Draco's cock against Harry's arsehole, and it's all he can do not to shove back onto that hard length and take it all in one, burning push.

Instead, Draco holds Harry steady as he works the head inside. There's resistance at first, even with the prep, but then Draco breaches Harry's body, and it's like the world under Harry's feet has shifted forty-five degrees to the left, everything exactly the same but wildly off balance. He's sweating and panting, wants to impale himself on Draco's cock, to be split open by it, but Draco's hands stop Harry from moving, and his voice, whispered and rough like leather, calms the shaking in Harry's bones.

"That's it," Draco murmurs. Harry can feel Draco's breath on the nape of his neck. "God, you're so bloody gorgeous. Look at how you're taking me."

Harry groans, and Draco presses forward with a hard thrust of his hips. His cock glides into Harry, smooth and easy, and when it hits Harry's prostate, he has to bite his lip to keep from cursing with pleasure.

After that, Draco's pace picks up. His thrusts are rhythmic and purposeful. Steady like the tide rising and falling, moving forward and back, growing and cresting and falling back. On Harry's hips, Draco's hands tighten. They dig into the bones there, pulling Harry's hips back as Draco's slam forward. Harry bends with the motion, arching his back to lay his forehead against the cool wooden doors of the cabinet. He's lost to pleasure, lost to the glide of Draco's cock against his prostate. Breath escapes him. His heart races.

He needs. Needs Draco. Needs to come.

"I'll take care of you." Draco pants the words into Harry's shoulder. "Let me take care of you."

"Yes."

Draco's hand wraps around Harry's cock, and he groans at the relief and the agony of it. With sure strokes, Draco's fingers move over Harry's heated flesh until come is beading at the head of his dick, Draco's thumb sweeping it up and rubbing it into Harry's skin.

Draco rests his teeth against Harry's shoulder. The threat of it leaves him shivering on the edge of orgasm. "I'm close, Potter." Tongue tasting sweat. "Fuck, I'm going to come. Don't"—a panting gasp, almost pained—"Need you with me. Harry."

That's what does him in. His name, two syllables, licking through him like fire, like Draco's cock pressed insistently to Harry's prostate, Draco's hand tight around Harry's dick. All of his muscles tense, his vision goes grey around the edges, and then he's shouting, screaming, holding to the cabinet as if it will stop him from falling, falling, falling.

"Fuck." Draco's thrusts turn sloppy, the careful rhythm lost, and then he stops, balls deep in Harry's arse, hips shuddering and shaking, those teeth dug deep into Harry's shoulder.

They stand like that for a long moment, both of them wrung out and panting. Harry's not entirely sure how he's still standing. There's a cramp in his left leg that's demanding he do something about it, but the lassitude from his orgasm has him not caring enough to deal with it. Draco's taken his teeth out of Harry's shoulder, but his forehead is resting there instead. There's a slight tickle whenever he exhales, but Harry likes it. Carefully, he unclenches his fingers from around the edge of the cabinet and reaches back to cup Draco's hair, holding him in place.

Draco exhales. "It wasn't just the powder."

Harry's chest is full of something he doesn't know how to define. It's an ache, for sure, but there's a sweetness to the burn. Something settled but still yearning, an emotion he hasn't felt in years, wanting to burst free. Draco's hands slide around Harry's waist, pull him close, and then he kisses the skin of Harry's shoulder, then his neck, then below his ear.

"We can't stay here all day."

"Why not?"

Draco laughs, and Harry can feel his smile against his skin. "Because you've clearly got a cramp in your leg, there's come on that cabinet and the carpet, and I think Bartlett's left."

"All minor."

"And," Draco kisses Harry's neck again, "I can't take you to dinner and then back to my place if we stay here."

Draco's arms tighten around Harry's waist one more time, and then he steps away. Harry feels Draco's softening cock slide out of his body, and he misses the pressure of it almost immediately. Something warm trickles down the inside of his thigh, and he shivers. He could cast a _Scourgify_ , but he doesn't want that trace of Draco's presence wiped away. Carefully, he turns, hoping that this won't all be a dream gone suddenly and completely wrong.

Draco is sliding his pants on, though he's grimacing as he does. The fabric is still wet, and it drags on his skin, refusing to settle into place.

"You wouldn't be able to cast a drying charm without your wand, would you?"

"We're literally about to walk out of here. If you wait two minutes, you'll have your own wand." Harry feels a smile tickling at the edge of his mouth.

Draco smirks back at him, but it's teasing and full of low-banked heat. "I'd like it better if you did it."

Christ, this man. With a sigh, Harry casts a drying charm and watches Draco shudder as it races over his skin and pants, the black fabric drying slightly lighter than it had been.

"Merlin. Remind me to have you do that again later."

Harry can't help it. He laughs and then hurries forward, dragging a startled Draco into his arms and kissing the man like he's air. Draco's hands go to Harry's hair like they belong there, and he pulls Harry closer, his lips thin and hard because he's smiling into the kiss.

"You'd better hope Bartlett isn't still out there," Harry says, his forehead pressed against Draco's, their noses resting against each other. "Because if he tries to touch what's mine again, I'm going to hex him."

"That's shockingly uncultured of you, Potter. I mean, I'd expect as much from a Gryffindor—"

Harry cuts off Draco's teasing words with a quick, fervent kiss. "Quit complaining, and let me date you."

"Really?" Draco pulls back, taking in the serious expression crossing Harry's face. "I think I can come to terms with that. It might take me a minute or two, of course, but I'm sure I'll adjust with the proper encouragement."

"Twat."

"Perhaps." Draco pulls his hands from Harry's hair, though the motion feels regretful. "We do need to get out of here, though. They'll be locking up the building soon, and as much fun as I've had with confinement so far, there's a lovely bistro not far from here and"—he grins—"my bed is much more comfortable than a storage room."

Harry gets into his trousers and undershirt, his robes, pads, gloves, and boots gathered into a haphazard bundle, and Draco puts his hand to the lock, eyebrow raised. When Harry nods, Draco undoes it, then pulls the door open as if it might attack.

On the other side, sprawled across the floor with his trousers partially undone and his hand suspiciously positioned, Bartlett is asleep. His mouth is open, and when Draco goes to poke at his form with his toe, Harry stops him.

"Let him be." Harry hip checks Draco, making him walk around Bartlett's limp form. "He'll want to sleep this off."

"And likely pretend it never happened," Draco adds.

They get dressed in their street clothes. Harry leaves his uniform in Draco's locker, knowing that it'll draw some questions and not caring in the slightest. They vanish the powder and the box from the floor, and as they walk out of the locker room, Draco reaches back for Harry, takes his hand and threads their fingers together.

"You may have won the game today," he says wryly, "but I do believe I've come out ahead."

Harry grins, thinking that Draco, for once, has it completely right.

**Author's Note:**

> If someone could explain to me why this ship has broken the floodgates on my smut dam, I'd appreciate it. I sincerely did not intend to write over 8k of porn, but... what can you do?
> 
> Dedicated to the lovely Drarry Discord. They are the best enablers around. 😘


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